


Famed Monster

by PAHughes



Category: Goth - Fandom, Horror - Fandom, Mystery - Fandom, Thiller - Fandom, gothic - Fandom, metal - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 12:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14057007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAHughes/pseuds/PAHughes
Summary: A satirical look at gothic sub-culture, a murder mystery, and the 'The King and I. Who in their right mind thought that would make for a good book?If you or anyone you know has been bewitched by the devil's black nail polish?Are you able to look yourself in the eye and not take your sharpie-drawn homage to Tim Burton converse trainers too seriously? Then this book is for you.Dive in, read on and remember, black is like totally an emotional colour.*Apathetic sigh*





	Famed Monster

It didn’t seem like a time for sorrow even if it should have. Many of her friends offered help and solace which I declined with as much of the utmost courtesy I could muster before their infernal wittering droned into a dull buzz in the background. Interfering busybodies, gossiping old women looking for something to talk about at their next Tuesday club meeting, you’d think at a time like this they’d have respect for the families but even a funeral didn’t give them the notice to stop for a night. Of course, not that I can say much myself. I should be mourning and yet I’m doing anything but.   
This place is packed out with a sea of grey haired black chess pieces all pawns and no bishops, even the one wearing the dog collar is nothing but a yes man, saying and doing whatever will get him paid. Were it appropriate I would laugh at how all these long-time friends and acquaintances claimed to know her so well. If they’d known her they would know my mother hated them all, doing all she could to not answer the door to them or shove them out of the house as soon as clapped eyes on them.   
There is no family to grieve for her, only me, and though I sign my soul away with this I feel no grief only the relief that death came when it did. No more of her vicious bile could spew out as she criticised everything and everyone. A wretched woman with little good to say of the world.   
While friends of friends told stories of a woman they never really knew I sat thinking about my next move. There it was, three months earlier trapped in an old ledger inside a rustic chest, stuck at the back of a dreary, leaky attic. A chard pathetic looking birth certificate, frayed at the edges and almost ready to give in to rot, but still, the writing on it was legible, Johnathan Dungail, son of Martha Dungail. My mother. Johnathan and I didn’t share a father or a last name. He was six years older than I and as far as I could read, was not stillborn.   
My mother had had a son before she’d met my father and with no death certificate, I can only assume gave him away. Why would she never tell me of my brother, even after my father passed away when I was a child? She wasn’t old enough to live in the time where a single mother was looked down on but she had no family, my only conclusion was that she could not support her child. Did she think he was dead? Did she even know what happened to him?  
Even if she didn’t, I had to. I have his name. I have his birthdate. He’ll be a grown man now I just hope I can find some sort of document or evidence that he is still alive. After spending thousands of hours combing through every article on social networks I could find relating to a Johnathan Dungail I had made my mind up that either he was off the grid or more likely his new family had changed his name. Now I have a birthday. Not much to go on.   
My running thoughts were only stopped by the clink of glasses at the table around me. People were cheery now, thanks to their drunken stupor. I think they have quite forgotten why they were there or who they were supposed to remember. Ageing men telling stories about wars they weren’t old enough to be in and bitter old women nitpicking at every little detail of their husbands. Although she denied it my mother fits in perfectly here. I had sat nursing the same glass of whiskey for over an hour as my daydream had taken over of finding a brother with a well-formed, functioning family. 

After making my excuses I managed to wiggle my way out of the well-intoxicated den of wrinkled pythons and home to a house that was now mine but with remnants of her seeping through the walls. Tacky furniture, abysmal colour scheme, and wallpaper that would make the perfect entry for design disasters of the 70’s. At least now that it was all mine I could burn it to the ground and start again. I didn’t want to go on living here but it was a stable place to set up my research into John. I picture him however wrongly like my father since I don’t know his I have to make him mine. A dark straightforward man with the biggest brown eyes you’d ever seen. However serious he tried to be one quick smile sent him off like a little school boy running around the garden playing on the swings. I’d like to think that’s who John was.   
The night rushed in and I ran through my daily routine of checking all the doors and windows were locked, the cooker was off and the heating had cooled down for the night. Only then did I forget where I was as I poured out the Everest of paperwork I had printed off from adoption agencies I’d contacted and any leads I could find online. There was one agency I’d still to hear back from and God willing they would have some answers. I could tell you these documents off by heart with a number of times I’ve gone through them, but even though I know what’s in them I still check again just in case I missed something small.   
The house is eerie tonight. The old walls seem to echo with the stories of the past, their faded patterns telling of a life lived so long ago. Twenty-nine years I have spent in this house, fourteen of them with an aging woman who’s only content in life was to pull down everything good and turn her face up to hope. She was reaching seventy when she died. She held grimly to a life that had long since passed. Maybe she had hoped to see Johnathan again, maybe she thought he would come in her ailing state. He didn’t. I sat night after night being told all the wondrous things I could have done with my life if only I’d been a little bit better than what I am. The love for a parent is eternal but that doesn’t mean you ever have to like them.   
Searching through some beaten old ledgers I hoped to find some reference to Johnathan or any child. The ledgers passed in years, one year before me, and three years before me, five years before me. Nothing, not one iota of evidence this child ever existed. There were no crumpled up pictures or letters to an 18-year-old child, nothing. I don’t know what it’s like to give a child away, but I don’t think I could ever let one go so completely. The only sliver of a reference I’ve managed to find was a botched doctor’s form when asked how many children the patient had the number two was scribbled into a one. I’d hoped now that since John is well over 18 the adoption agencies would be more inclined to offer assistance to a pleading relative. Still no luck.   
As dawn broke on the next morning I awoke still in my funeral attire the pins of my veiled black hat digging into the base of my skull. Taking it off, I threw the pins onto the coffee table ruffling my already ruffled bed head. Again I had fallen asleep with a blanket of white pdf printed documents on adoption laws and legal adoptions for the year John was born. The answering machine had no blinking light and no one had called with the wonderful news that my brother was a well-formed member of society with a high functioning family seeking a socially incapable recluse for an aunt. The social incapability came mainly with family. Around the public I was a glittering jewel for all to see, behind closed doors I scuttled off to my room of seclusion only to be called out whenever mother wanted someone to hear her moan.   
The boss had given me two weeks off for my “grief” but I couldn’t stand two weeks in this place. Besides, the best place to get hidden information was in a public newspapers home office. As a reporter, I could get any story. No secret was too hidden for me to find. James Bond couldn’t jump through and dodge as many booby traps as I could, but finding my brother was proving an impossible task.   
Running the shower I slid off my mourning dress and stepped into the cold water. Head against the back wall of the shower I started to think of what I was doing wrong. I’d checked all the adoptions for the town my mother was living in at the time of the birth and none of them was a Dungail and so I started to think. What if she had moved? Maybe she didn’t live where I thought she did, maybe I need to hunt through old housing records and find out where she was at the time of the birth. The water grew warm and I knew it was time to get out. A warm shower had never done me any good.   
It wasn’t a small city and it wasn’t a big one but it was small enough to not need a car. The buses took you everywhere you needed to go and one bus took you straight into the city. During these rides, I was usually putting the finishing touches to my story.   
I was usually on the crime beat, local stabbings or curious items being stolen, more often than not I would get the news first, for other papers I was the go-to person. The Kelman Killer in all his glory had been stalking the back streets for a good few months now and his victims are what kept me writing.  
This time, I had no work to write, I had no story to write about. I needed to get into the office to get my next scoop, I’d been left out of the loop for a good week now it was about time I got back to the blood and gore of it all. I had a deal with Steve down at police records, he gave me the inside scoop and I kept the nitty gritty off the front page until it was time for the police to let everyone know. Our deal was good, the Chief pretended not to know about it but he appreciated that the Kelman Times kept police business private and didn’t stir a moral panic.   
Today I was off to the editor’s office to see if they had use of me there. I wasn’t much keen on scouting around town for a drug-ridden mongrel stealing 7-year-olds hamsters from their cages like some sort of twisted prison break but with no word from Steve it seemed as though the Killer had gone quiet. Then again, I could always go a theory story on what his next move would be but right now, with the randomness of his spree, that would be pure speculation and that wasn’t my style.   
The offices at Kelman were big, a good 14 story building covering the city and 19 surrounding burrows. The paper was often full of village fates and farmers markets with a big two-page spread of religious outcry at something the pope might have said during confession and dazzling articles on make-up and fashion by people whom you can’t really remember why they’re famous but go along with it anyway. I usually got a page to myself on this week’s crime scene, two pages if there was a courtroom drama with scandal seeping out the sides. My aim was always to keep the readers on the edge of their seats wondering if the so-called Kelman Killer would ever be unmasked along with seeing who had been arrested that week. It wasn’t big journalism but it was better than the village newsletter.   
The bus stopped off a few feet down from the main door and standing there outside the Kelman offices where three or four disgruntled housewives. The Tuesday club women who had nothing better to do with their lives than spending their husband’s money and complain about their neighbour’s grass not being up to standards. No wonder their husbands were all cheating on them with the local barmaids.   
I passed, as usual, to the melodic sound of utter rubbish being spouted from fake Louis Viton wielding 90% plastic faced women. Today’s complaint was that a new family had refused to buy the same kind of trees to go with the rest of the neighbourhood. I wasn’t aware that Kelman was turning into Stepford but these women were sure doing their best to make it that way.   
I flew through the revolving doors, it was no secret that on my off days I was likely to go round them at least four times before realising I’d missed my exit. My courtroom heels clicked along the marble floor, at least they called it marble if this is marble then why am I being paid in copper? I waved my badge at Doug the security guy and without even checking he let me past. 

The elevator doors open and I stepped inside. Hitting the button on the 10th floor I checked my smile in the glassed walls. If you’re going to act with authority don’t give them any reason to doubt you. There was a television in the elevator constantly playing the national news. Of course, as journalists, we are vultures we seek out the corpses of ruined lives and pick at their misery nothing better than getting a good dose of depression before starting your workday. 

Apparently, there was a festival coming to a town over from us. Metallic Rain. A fusion festival with rock and metal bands from all over the country. The headlining act was a “local legend” Roman Malum. A near forty-year-old man screaming infernal gibberish into a microphone as mindless drones dressed all in black bob along to a beat I doubt they can follow. I hear myself tutting at the screen and have a nightmarish thought. I’m turning into my mother.

The elevator Bings and I step out into a hive of busy interns being bossed around by professionals who are not being paid enough to babysit. My editor spots me straight away and shouts me over. Dancing my way through the maze of fresh-faced, greasy foreheaded teenagers all looking to make it big in the media I make it to my editor’s office. As usual, it is a mess. Joseph Cohen has been the editor here for 20 years and this job has not been easy on him. On his desk were the piled up entry article’s for the kids all darting about outside. I step inside and close the door behind me. The doors weren’t thick but they were enough to quiet the hum of noisy teens. 

“Hey, Joe what do you know?” I chuckle lightly looking at the nearly 50-year-old man holding his head up with one hand and a pen in the other marking with red ink all over a hopeful’s story. 

“Do I look like a robot now?” I just shrugged and smiled. He smiled back. Joe was the one who picked me out of the village news and brought me to the big media circus. I guess he saw a spark in me that was in him a long time ago. Or that’s the usual story, isn’t it? I was his go-to girl. If there was a story no one was taking I’d get it. Whenever I was out I went to Joe he always had something for me. “Look kid”. He started, still glued to marking the entry paper. “I know I usually save you the crime beats. Lord knows you’re the only one who can write them out properly. But this week I need you on that festival. I know it’s not your thing. You like that old swing-time jazz shit that even I’m too old for but I can’t trust the kids not to get wasted or high. I need a report, not an STI” 

I just laughed at him, Joe never said anything softly. “Right you’ll get your reports but I need all expenses covered?” He just waved his hand at me. “And I need an APB out on Johnathan Dungail.” 

He set down his pen and looked up to me “That kid you’ve been looking for? Though you ran cold on him?” 

“I did” I admitted. “But I have a new lead. I think he may have been adopted from another rural area and possibly a maternity care home.” That idea didn’t seem too far-fetched, 1970’s they were everywhere. Young mothers needing a place to have the baby and leave. 

“Right I’ll put the word out but I want a gleaming report. Gimmie the acts, the gossip, the behaviour of the crowd, if there isn’t any make some.” He took a big read stamp out of his drawer and thudded a big ‘Fail’ onto the essay. 

“No bother boss man, start a riot then write about it.” With that, I headed for the door, back down in the elevator and down to my office on the 5th floor. My office wasn’t anything of grandeur, it was a small 8 by 16 with a door. I had a few trimmings of work up on my walls and a pin board for my latest excursion, sibling hunting. If I found him it would make for a great story.  
In my desk, I kept my “go bag” a brown over the shoulder leather satchel faded and worn. In the bag was a yellow legal pad and a variety of pens, I also kept a note laptop, three batteries for it, fully charged and a Wi-Fi dongle at all times. Throwing my bag over my shoulder I headed back to the main desk. This all seemed rather extreme at times, it was like moving out on an MI6 manhunt when really all I’d get is a little gossip and a lot of nothing. 

In the foyer of the building I spoke to the receptionist and sorted out the business expenses, and since I was getting it all paid for any way I called a taxi for a quick ride home. In the taxi, I told the man “£20 for every red light you run.” The ride home took less than half an hour. The man kept the meter running and I ran inside for a change of clothes. Faded green khaki trousers tucked into light brown leather knee high boots, flat heeled. A flouncy baby blue top that was tight from elbow to wrist. Perfect Woodstock gear. I ran out to the taxi with a tent and sleeping bag in a rucksack and my go bag over my shoulder. 

At least in the city, there was something to look at, shops and buses and people running around. Once you leave there’s nothing but hills and grass. The car ride seemed to continue on and on. I’m sure we circled one mountain at least three times. There was no way this bloody concert was this far out into the middle of nowhere. There was no hope that a 17-year-olds first banged up car could make it all the way out here, not with the illegal amount of passengers and kit they would need to take with them. I was honestly surprised there weren’t rows of 1980’s ford’s smoking along the side of the road. 

As we drew nearer the field grew louder. Screaming and whooping from behind one large cluster of mountains gave birth to a proverbial shanty town of music goers. Arriving at the already teeming set of fields I threw some cash at the taxi driver and he took off. I flashed my Press badge at the security guards who then kindly led me to an open space to put my tent up. It was a basic one man tent, it popped up by itself but you had to have seven or eight people to get it back in its bag. There was enough room in it for my sleeping bag, a place to dump my equipment and a small canopy I could put my muddy boots under at night. I had managed to unfurl my tent and sleeping bag nicely and had my toothbrush and hygiene kit all laid out in the tent before I grabbed my go bag and was ready to start exploring. 

Looking out into the sea of people it took me the whole of two seconds to figure out what I’d done wrong. I was standing in the middle of a field with my baby blue blouse, frizzy red hair, and satchel when all around me were spiked, shaved heads with deep black canvas clothing draped in skulls chains and demonic profanity. I stuck out like a clown at a funeral. I found it rather poetic that for a large gathering of social outcasts I was the odd one out. There were at least 4,000 people in this area alone and more were coming. The stage was a good 2/3rds of a mile away but I had to get up close. 

Slugging my way through the muddy earth that seemed to give way with every step I took, I’d walked a good half mile through glaring looks and godforsaken brown marsh but finally, the stage was only about 50 feet away and an act was getting ready to play. As I reached the stage I was about six or seven rows back and I asked the girl next to me with large tattoos up her arm and piercings masking her face who was playing. With a scoff and a look as though I’d just dribbled down my shirt, she told me. It was Roman Malum the headliner, he had come to open and close the festival. 

Not bad I get my first scoop within an hour of being here although I really should have known who it was playing. Then again it’s not easy to see the rare glimpses of band members over the top of the spiked colourful hair of what looked like the love children of Sid Vicious and a parrot. As the crew was still setting the stage up Roman came on to greet a cheering crowd of thousands. I pulled out a pen and started writing. 

I didn’t use my yellow legal pad, instead, I used an invention of my own. I liked to strap a band around my thigh and attach a small notepad to it. That way I could write small notes at my side without ever having to take my eyes off the story. It took a while to get my handwriting up to scratch with it but it's pretty decent now. He greeted his fans with kind words and nothing much happened. He said hello then left. To tell the truth, I was disappointed in him. This long living rock god who had millions of fans worldwide, with people here having his name tattooed onto them didn’t do anything exciting at all. 

Not long after he’d vanished off stage the music starting blaring two or three songs and the fields were covered in black leather and chains as far as the eye could see. I met a few fellow reporters from cities across the country all sticking out like sore thumbs, we joked a little about the evening’s entertainment and our usual stories then traded information and sought out something interesting to write about. Luckily for me, I stayed near the stage and soon a large hole had been dug into the crowd. I wasn’t too sure what was happening so I stayed away but close enough to watch. Sitting on top of one of the railings blocking the crowd from the stage I watched the commotion as two sides of the gaping hole came crashing together. It was a mosh pit. Fists flew and outrageous dance moves collided with faces, bellies, and other soft skin. At first, I was eager to get away from it but I soon came to enjoy it. Everyone in there was getting beaten to hell but they were all smiling rather happily. There is no more confusing enjoyment than that of watching sickly pale skinny people get their piercings knocked out of them.

Being enthralled by the event I neglected to see that the pit was beginning to grow as more and more people heard about it and came to join. I thought I was far enough away from the commotion not to get affected by it but I was wrong. The pit then began to move, it went one way then the other like a swirling vortex. Soon thereafter it came closer to me. One part of the railing had already been smashed down and now I was looking for a way out of this. I might be tough but 500 hyped up moshers with studded boots were enough for me to panic. I put my pen away and looked for an escape route. One side of me was moshers and the other were people pushing to get into the pit. I was stuck. 

When the pit was only a few feet away I pulled my knees up hoping they would miss me. Watching impending death smashing and crashing its way closer to me I took a moment to thank god for my life and many good fortunes. “in Nomine Patris et Filii et spiritus Sancti amen” Out of the mist of flying blood and coloured hair spray a pair of strong arms came folding around my waist as though the angels had heard my prayers. Oh God, I’d been saying this was a load of crap fed to idiots all my life. I went to shout but they pulled me back onto a soft landing. Behind me, someone had pulled me off the rails and onto the side of the stage. I went to protest that we weren’t supposed to be there but to my surprise, it was Roman Malum. He had pulled me out of the way of the moshers. Before I could state my recognition of him he took my forearm and pulled me back to the side and behind the stage. We stood under the wooden structures of the main stage and watched the mosh pit engulf the railings. 

I could only laugh at the carnage out there. I’d forgot there was someone to thank for this until I heard a deeper voice laughing along with me. I knew I couldn’t write right now so I looked at him through a peripheral vision for a mental note later on. He looked nothing like the man on stage. There was no black baggy trousers or chained leather cuffs. He was wearing black suit trousers and a dark blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves open with one or two buttons at the top. He was a lot less pale than on stage and he had short auburn hair not long drenched black hair draped over his face like a drowned rat. No, this man looked relatively handsome.

I stood upright as the pit began to migrate away. “I suppose I owe you thanks huh?” I shifted my weight to one leg with a half-smile. 

“I’ll take a good review if that counts?” He said with a chuckle. He was Irish. That’s different. I wasn’t expecting that sing-song voice after all that screaming. Now I got a good look at him. This man was looking exceedingly good for forty. A small stubble beard suiting his cutting edge jaw well. He had strong arms and from how the shirt fit a chest to match. Now if more of the skinny boy’s I’d seen today looked like this I might think of converting to the dark side. “What were you doing out there anyway? Do you have a death wish?” He chuckled pointing to one group of, especially sad looking people. “If so I can introduce you to some like-minded people.” 

I shook my head and turned back to him. “I was trying to get the best angle for my story. We have to present things as they are you know.” 

To that, he simply rubbed his beard with the base of his palm and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah you people like to get the dirt on us freaks huh?”

My smile faded at that comment and my image of him as a handsome man in a well-fitted suit faded. “I resent that. You guys want to jump around to screeching music and punch holes in your face you do that. I’m here to report what happens as it happens my opinion stays out of it and what reader’s judge is their business.” I know we are vultures but only we are allowed to say it. At that point I turned to leave, this is my job if they have a problem with it, they can bitch about me in a song and I’ll review it.

“Wha-wait now hold on!” He took hold of my arm turning me back to face him. I couldn’t help but notice his hand covered a large stretch of my arm. “Very testy for a media buzz.” His half smile did lighten the mood but I didn’t want to show him that. “Look how about I give you a one on one interview, all questions aloud?” 

That was a very tempting offer. “All access? No restrictions?” He nodded and tilted his head askingly. “Well… it’s not much but I guess it’ll do… however” I beckoned him closer with one finger. He obliged and leaned in. “I will need my arm back to write.” He looked to his hand that still had a firm grip on my arm and let go with a small sideways smile. I nodded to him and him to me and with that, I ducked under the wooden beams and out into the crowd. 

The music played long into the night and after some minor fights, I headed back to my tent. The boots were off and sitting under the canopy, a pair of boxers and a vest was sufficient night wear. I went to my notebook to write everything that had happened today. When it came to writing about Roman I couldn’t. It wasn’t writer's block where the words were just on the tip of your tongue but you couldn’t quite find them, it was more of an I can’t write what I actually think of this man and sell papers. The only words that came to mind about him were like a school girl writing about a crush. Handsome, strong, down to earth, no, I can’t possibly write that. I could write it if I was selling it to teen archive but a functioning paper looking for celeb shockers and gossip that won’t do. I’ll find some dirt in our one on one interview. Romans words ran in my ears “you people like to get the dirt on us freaks”. I couldn’t do that now, but then I couldn't give him an all sparkling review everyone wants that and I defiantly couldn’t just leave him out of the article. 

My racing thoughts were interrupted by the hum of my phone vibrating off of the only hard ground for miles. Apparently, all we reporters had been clubbed together in the nice part of the fields so we would give a nicer review of the festivals events. I checked the caller, it was Joe. “Hey Joe, what have you got for me?”

“You know that APB you wanted? Well, Steve, your jailhouse snitch called to say he’s got something for you. How’s my star writing about this freak fest?” That word struck a blow.

“I’m doing better than the rest, managed to get a one on one with Roman Malum.” I laughed lightly into the phone. 

“Jesus Christ, how the hell did you do that?” I heard him take the cigar from his mouth, I guess I really came through this time.

“Why I used my womanly charm of course.” I fluttered my eyelashes, I know he couldn’t see but it perfected the innocent voice I pulled off to my boss.

“Well if you sleep with him I want the dirt and if you get pictures you deserve a raise!” 

I bust out laughing at that, I know he was serious but it was just funny. “I’ll get you something good about his home life and that’s it, any more and you’ll have to bed him.”

Joe took a puff on his cigar and choked out a laugh. “You’re a tough chick there Morgan. Call me once you’ve got the scoop.”

“Will do.” And with that, I hung up the phone. Did I just promise my boss dirt on the guy who just saved me from a certain trip to the hospital? The idea of giving dirt on Roman was a hard pill to swallow but why did it matter, I would just be perpetuating a fangirl stereotype if I didn’t. The truth is the truth. If he’s willing to say it to me he’s willing to say it to the world. My finger hovered over Steve’s contact details but my tired eyes decided against it. I can call Steve in the morning. Now it was time for an hours rest before sunrise.


End file.
